


Three Cracks on Her Ceiling

by yesterday4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-14
Updated: 2005-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: He can’t stop counting and she can’t help noticing.





	Three Cracks on Her Ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> I had some reservations about posting this and so I thought I'd make it clear that I do not mean to offend anybody who might read this story. _I_ have obsessive compulsive disorder and am therefore absolutely not trying to throw any stones. I just find the idea of a neurotic Malfoy… intriguing.

Title: Three Cracks on Her Ceiling  
Author: [](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/)**yesterday4**  
Summary: He can’t stop counting and she can’t help noticing.  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Rating: R, for mild sexual themes.  
Dedication: For Jemma who is the only person who completely understands.  
Author’s Note: I had some reservations about posting this and so I thought I'd make it clear that I do not mean to offend anybody who might read this story. _I_ have obsessive compulsive disorder and am therefore absolutely not trying to throw any stones. I just find the idea of a neurotic Malfoy… intriguing.

  
****

**  
**

Three Cracks on Her Ceiling

****  
  
  


 

_There are three cracks on her ceiling, which spiral out into nine separate lines that are skinnier and more twisted than their originator. She has three pillows as well, which he thinks is odd, and sleeps with two blankets. None of this bothers him. There aren’t any Bad Numbers in the private quarters her position as Head Girl has landed her and he counts more out of habit than actual necessity._

 

**

 

Draco isn’t sure when it started. Now that it has, however, he can’t remember what life was like without it. _Quieter_ anyway but he has grown almost… fond of the constant clutter in his head and he sure as bloody hell wouldn’t be able to _walk_ anywhere if it stopped.

 

If he really thinks about it, he decides that it all might coincide with his father’s imprisonment in Azkaban… the day he scornfully refers to as The Irrevocable Change in His Life. Maybe it started because of that; maybe it continued because his mother was too preoccupied with her own grief to remember him. Because his friends pulled away or because he pulled away from them? Because he’d had to have _something_.

 

Or maybe it had just appeared one day.

 

What the fuck ever. Malfoy doesn’t particularly care. Inconsequential. Irrelevant. The point is that it’s here now and he has better things to do than waste his time trying to ponder _where_ it came from.

 

Things like counting.

 

At first, it hadn’t been that bad. He just counted little things and avoided the number three. Not too bad. If he felt _really_ frazzled by it all, that could be fixed by stroking his wand five times with a steady amount of force. Wands fixed things; magic made everything better and touching the source of it chased away the unnamable fear that the Bad Number presented.

 

He’s not sure he noticed it when it began but, thinking back on it, maybe he liked it a little. Organizing things. Fixing them into neat little groups.

 

As long as the groups weren’t in threes.

 

*

 

_She wrinkles her brow when his fingers find their way to the buttons on her blouse and her forehead creases into four perfect lines. He rubs his hands over the lace of her bra once, twice, three, four times and she sighs two perfect little hiccups of pleasure. He wants her in hundreds of ways- too many to count and that’s a first- and the incredible thing, really, is that she wants him back in just as many._

 

*

 

Nobody notices and he is so damn good that he doesn’t think anybody ever will. Doesn’t matter if he’s mentally exhausted himself by simply observing everything or that his palm feels raw from rubbing at the wood on his wand. He is a _Malfoy_ and a Slytherin and he’ll happily let The Boy Who Perpetually Buys Bad Glasses hex him a dozen times at the front of the Great Hall before he’ll tell a soul. It helps of course that there isn’t a single soul to tell but whatever. Draco doesn’t need friends anyway.

 

Especially friends who have the nerve to look down on him now that The Irrevocable Change in His Life has occurred. Fuck them all, he thinks, gazing superciliously around the Great Hall. Fuck the Slytherins for being so bloody typical. Fuck the Gryffindors for seeing it coming. Fuck Potty and the Weasel and the Mudblood for their superior coping skills.

 

The potatoes are passed to him third and, even though he loves potatoes more than any other food, he lets them pass. Can’t do it without touching the bowl and drops his hand to his wand. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Only that’s starting to be not quite enough and he feels fidgety. Fights against the urge to loosen his tie. Inside his shoes, his toes begin to tap and that’s good because it isn’t noticeable and maybe it’ll distract him through dinner. Hand back on the wand and _onetwothreefourfiveonetwothreefourfive_.

 

The Mudblood is watching him, he notices with some surprise when he is almost satisfied and normal again. She looks curious and he can’t for the life of him fathom why. So she saw him pass up the potatoes, so what. She doesn’t know him and doesn’t know that he likes them best of all. He could be deathly allergic for all she knows. But Granger has that horrible meddling look on her face and so he shoots his best snigger and glare combo. She’s surprised at being caught and looks away so fast he wonders if she’ll feel a strain on her neck later.

 

He doesn’t much care but some old part of him rather hopes so.

 

*

 

 _She is his one friend and the one person he can tell anything to. She has called him Draco four hundred and nineteen times and he thinks he’ll never tire of hearing it. She calls him Draco now as his hand slips underneath her bra and begins to caress her skin on skin. She’s always liked his hands on her breasts and he’ll do it thousands of times before he tires of the soft texture of her skin or of the way her breath puffs in a sharp staccato against his cheek. It’s too perfect to count and so he closes his eyes and simply **feels**_.

 

*

 

It takes him 666 steps to walk to Potions, which would have been fine if six hadn’t joined three on his list of Bad Numbers. He is in a foul mood by the time he arrives, a mood that is made all the worse by the fact that Granger had hurried by him in the hallway and had undoubtedly seen his lips moving as he counted each carefully placed footfall. She had arched an eyebrow at him and he had been reduced to calling her a worthless Mudblood so that she would scurry on past him. It bothers him later that she didn’t look insulted, merely intrigued. Maybe he didn’t put enough of his old snap behind it. He makes a note to work on that later, maybe in front of a mirror.  


Of course it wasn’t as snappy as usual because she’d _interrupted_ and he swears as he walks, wondering what exactly he’ll do to counteract this particular offense. Count out 666 ways to hex her perhaps but he is too distracted to see the fun in that. Has to fight the urge to start his walk all over and recount everything.

 

He is late and Snape looks at him questionably but does not dock any points from his House. This isn’t abnormal in the least but Malfoy thinks Snape senses he’s on thin ice since The Irrevocable Change in His Life and that always stings the pride a little. Acts like he doesn’t care though and slouches down in his usual seat- fifth one in on the fourth row.

 

He doesn’t know when he stops paying attention to the lecture and starts staring at Granger. She, of course, is not staring at him now. Instead, she is avidly taking notes and probably waiting for the opportune time to shoot her hand up in the air. He smirks to himself. Bloody know-it-all Mudblood bitch.

 

He wonders what it is she knows about him. He’s a good actor but when he’s alone there’s no need for it. It is a chilling thought to wonder if he might have been too caught up in it all to actually _notice_ anybody else. Has she seen him? Does she think he’s crazy? He’s beginning to think he is but it’s a whole other matter for Granger to think so and mean it. His palms start to sweat and this irritates him further.

 

She has used three clips in that wild mane of hair today and he notices before he can stop himself. Waits for the urge to grab for his wand… only _nothing_. The Bad Number has been counteracted somehow and all he can think is what the fuck? Surely she is not immune. Surely _she_ doesn’t have some magical answer for it all but, well, wouldn’t that just be Granger?

 

*

 

 _She kisses him all over his face, eight kisses that are routinely sloppy and wet. She’s panting as she straddles him and she is a thing of such beauty that he is lost. Completely and utterly lost. Her hair is softer than it appears and it tickles at his nose as her ministrations move downwards and he is so dangerously and blissfully close to thinking absolutely **nothing**_.

 

*

 

Draco is a slave to the Bad Numbers. He is so brilliantly obsessed by them that he thinks he lives and breathes nothing else. Tells himself he’d give them up in a heartbeat but that’s a lie and he knows it. He’d be _lost_ without them. He isn’t sure he remembers how to function, simply because he can’t remembering not counting his functions.

 

A week after he catches Granger with three clips in her hair, he tries a new route on the way to Potions and is pleased to make it there in 827 steps (even if one of those steps was an embarrassing little hop skip so as not to end up being 826). He is almost giddy with his success and feels like shouting it from the rooftops. He almost laughs and only contains it by reminding himself rather firmly that Malfoys do not laugh in public. Mirth is a show of weakness and he refuses to be outwardly weak.

 

Of course, he is also disgustingly late for Potions- later than he’s ever been- and that’s a sobering thought. He isn’t sure how long Snape is going to let his behavior slide but he is blissfully lucky again today… or so he thinks until he tries to sit down.

 

Some bloody git has stolen his seat. He is so blinded with… panic induced fury that he doesn’t even recognize who it is. Could be anybody and it doesn’t matter because the only seat left is the seat beside Granger- the third seat in on the third row.

 

Can’t do it. Can’t do it. Can’t do it.

 

Snape wants to know, “Is there a problem, Mr. Malfoy?”

 

 _Yes, there fucking is!_ Draco wants to shout. He’d storm right out of the classroom too, only that would cause too much attention and then people other than _her_ might start watching him and they can’t watch him because then they’d notice and being neurotic about numbers is a much greater weakness than mirth and Malfoy just can’t stand one more bloody weakness so he can’t-

 

_Onetwothreefourfiveonetwothreefourfiveonetwothreefourfive_

 

-Hand not even on the wand because there isn’t time and his feet are moving to that cursed seat which he _cannot_ sit in. He doesn’t know what will happen if he does- yes he does, absolutely nothing- but what if… and…

 

Granger stands up abruptly. Meets his wild gaze with calm brown eyes. She doesn’t smile; doesn’t do anything but look rather annoyed… only now she isn't looking at him. Hands on her hip, she glares down at Weasley, who is sitting directly in front of her.

 

“I told you, Ron,” she snaps, voice rich with exasperation, “I can’t stand it when you sit in front of me. You know I can’t see over you.”

 

Then, with a great huff and much to Weasley’s bewilderment, she plops herself back down on the seat that Draco could not sit in. The Numbers do not touch her. She pulls her books over in her direction and pretends not to hear Snape dock points from Gryffindor.

 

Draco cannot believe it. Almost warily, he takes her abandoned seat and looks at her in complete confusion. She knows. He’s not such a dunderhead that he isn’t completely sure of that now. She must have been watching more than he thought. But why would she help him? The Gryffindor in her probably, so bloody noble. _Poor Malfoy, with a jailed Daddy, and not a single friend in the world_. She’d probably made him her pet project, right up there with those bloody house-elves.

 

Draco wishes he is even a little offended but all he feels is an overwhelmingly massive relief. _Someone_ sees and it has been a horribly long time since anyone has looked at him genuinely.

 

Suddenly Granger is quite literally looking at him. Her eyes are kind and understanding but the hiss she sends in his direction is not.

 

“Stop staring at me, Malfoy,” she orders.

 

And he smiles. Forgets to touch his quill five times before he picks it up as he answers, “Don’t even pretend you don’t like it, Granger. Bet you sit around all day fancying how you’d like me to look at you.”

 

He is so very damned relieved not to be in that chair and not to be mocked by her that he even wiggles his eyebrows in a manner that could almost be construed as friendly.

 

“ _That_ , Malfoy, is disgusting.” But he thinks she might want to smile a little bit, because she smashes her mouth together hard and two lines appear on either side of her lips.

 

“Stick and stones, Granger,” he whispers back. And then, because he thinks they might actually be perilously close to having a bloody _moment_ , “Sticks and stones, Hermione.”

 

She blinks seven times when she is overwhelmingly surprised.

 

*

 

_When she climaxes, she exhales hard twice and is still beneath him for a grand total of five seconds. Then, she bites the area where his neck meets his shoulders because she knows that drives him crazy and suddenly he is there too, surrounded by nothing but bliss and Hermione and the most amazing **silence** he has been allowed to hear in months._

 

The End


End file.
